The Empty Chair

There's a sound that echoes through homes marked by love—not loud or dramatic, but unmistakable to those who've experienced it. It's the sound of a chair that doesn't get pulled out. An empty seat at the table.

Im sure you know to what I’m referring. You set the table, cook the meal, go through all the familiar motions. But your eyes keep drifting to that one place where someone should be and isn't. Now there are a myriad of reasons that chair is empty. It could distance , another state, another season of life. But sometimes is not just where they are, but who they've become and how far they've gone. And yet even when the room is full, your heart still drifts to that one empty seat, that one that's missing.

This is the heartbeat of one of the most beloved stories ever told in the gospels—a story about two sons and a father whose heart was fixed on the empty chairs at his table. And Yes I said chairs.

In Luke 15:11 The story begins simply: "There was a man who had two sons." Two sons. Two empty chairs. Two different kinds of distance from the same father.

What unfolds is not primarily a story about reckless rebellion or religious resentment. It's a story about a Father's heart—a window into what God is like toward those who are lost.

You know the story. The younger son makes a shocking request: he wants his inheritance now. In that culture, this wasn't just premature—it was insulting. Essentially saying, "Dad I wish you were dead. I want your stuff, I don’t want you."

Listen If you've ever poured yourself into someone only to be treated as disposable garbage, then you can feel the sting. Most of us would react with distain. But catch what this father does. He doesn't strike him. He doesn't disown him. He doesn't throw him out. He divides his property.

This action is something profound: This dad is saying, "You may love my stuff more than you love me, but I love you more than I love my stuff." What an example for all of us.

The story continues to unfold Ernest see the son take everything he has and heads to "the far country." But let's be clear—the far country isn't just a place on a map. It also represents any life lived which pushes God to the margins of that life. The far country can be a bar stool, but it can also be a boardroom. It can be a motel room or a quiet living room. It can be your recliner but it can also be the pew you set in each week. You see this far country It's not just distance in geography; it's distance in the heart.

Then the reality of sin sets in and as scripture says, he squanders everything in reckless living. Because sin always runs on the same schedule: it promises quickly, it pays slowly, and it always overcharges. Leaving you empty, exhausted, embarrassed, and estranged.

Think about it while the money flows, friends are plenty. When it dries up, they disappear. The world will gladly take what you have and then give you nothing you need.

So the son ends up homeless doing the job no one else will do, feeding pigs and eventually he begins to envy the pigs. He wish he had what they had.

Then comes one of the most hope-filled sentences: "But when he came to himself..."

The son starts remembering, comparing, seeing clearly. Where he is versus where he knows he should be. He forms a plan: "I will arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.'"

Friend Real repentance begins vertically but also applies horizontally. Simply meaning that true repentance drops any and all entitlement. Coming to the end of yourself in not a bargaining chip for salvation it’s surrender. Which is the only way to salvation and restoration.

But here's the depth of the Father's heart: even in our rebellion, the Father's love does not vanish.

You may have ruined your reputation, squandered opportunities, fractured relationships, sinned in ways you won't say out loud. But you cannot outrun the Father's love. Scripture reminds us that God showed His love in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Not after we cleaned up. Not once we proved ourselves. While we were still sinners.

What follows next is an emotional explosion: "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him."

Now don’t miss this. “While he was still a long way off, the father saw him." That means the father had been watching, scanning the horizon, living with an empty chair. And when he sees his son, he runs—not to punish, not to interrogate, not to humiliate—but to embrace.

Then before the son can finish his rehearsed apology, the father interrupts with grace: "Bring the best robe, put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring the fattened calf and let us celebrate."

The robe covers his shame. The ring signals his sonship. The shoes say, "You're not a slave here—you're family."

This is what God does when sinners come home. He doesn't put you on probation. He doesn't make you earn your way back. He says, "Welcome home."

But the story doesn't end there. Most people stop at the party, but there's another son, there’s another empty chair. The older brother who stayed home, worked faithfully, and never disobeyed.

When he hears the celebration, he refuses to join. When Dad ask what’s wrong, the older son say: "Dad I never abandoned you, I’ve served you, and did anything and everything that you needed or wanted, and yet you never gave me an opportunity to celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has spent all that you gave him on prostitutes, and poker you killed the fattened calf for him!"

Listen to his language: "served," "never disobeyed," "you never gave me." This is a man near the father's house who doesn't know the father's heart. He sees obedience as leverage, relationship as transaction. He's not relating like a son—he's relating like an employee.

Notice he doesn't say "my brother." He says, "this son of yours." Resentment always breaks family language.

This is the sin of self-righteousness. It's possible to be in the field, doing the work, and still be far from God. The older brother didn't just miss the party—he missed the point.

But catch this, the same father who ran to the rebellious son now comes out to plead with the religious son. Why? Because there were two empty chairs at his table just in different ways.

The father responds with tenderness: "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.” In other words: You've been living like a slave when you were a son.

The story ends unresolved. The older brother stands outside. The father pleads. The music plays. The table is set. And the question hangs: Will the older brother come in?

Friend the heart of God is fixed on the empty chairs. The one who rebels and the one who is resentful. The truth is that ground is level at the foot of the cross. Whether lost in rebellion or lost in religion, there is only one way to the Father—and His arms are open wide.

The table is set the chairs may be empty but He is looking, He is pleading. He wants nothing more than to say to you “welcome home.”

Dr. Christopher Young